Latitude

by Shamima Rahman

Rain trickled down the fogged windowsmearing the luster of the world.Jumping water hitting the windowBars. Reaching greatest of heightscould even awaken the City that never sleeps.

Slowly, the veiled sun glided toward the West. Ripples began to fade, pungent acid rain fused withleather stench stuffed with clothes of fancy, cottons for comfortThe daily necessities. Mother. One brother. Two sisters. And I.Packed ready to go our prized possessionssealed tightly by masking tape and string. On schedule we waited anxiously reviewing ourimaginary checklist making sure nothing was forgotten. It was going to be a long trip.

Three weeks later, thousands of miles away,in one of the world’s most scorching, sodden place.Bangladesh. Asia. South.Where my ancestors live on in memory.

The sounds of honking cars echoed in my ears. The heat suspended in the air, frozen in time.Darkness engulfed the nightthe silence proliferated.Among the mosquitoes, the coconut trees,my sister and I spoke with our humble driver.

A man who has no money, but lots of loveFor his wife, for the kids he did not have yet.I can barely remember, piece togetherwhat those 90 minutes of conversation entailed. It felt more like hours.

Despite his worthless paycheck, clay-made hut, social inferiority,his wide smile remained intact. He spoke wonderfully, deeply. His words genuine and sincere, but best of all, somehow hopefulwith a dash of trepidation.

Sitting in the car with no doors my skin became stickyfrom the thick moisture in the atmosphere. A tiny mosquito buzzed in my ear. Water withdrew from my mouth,leaving it dry and coarse.

My memory crept back to worn look-a-like buildings,cracked sidewalks and littered rain gutters.I stood before the rustic white windowin my second floor apartment inQueens. New York. America. NorthNever did I ever imagine we would venture all those miles away. I lingered in disbelief. The clamor of the engine whittled through my thoughts. It was time to get going.

As the car with no doors swept passed shoeless childrenwho wandered aimlessly down the battered path,I could smell the thick, rotten water that inundated the sides of the road. We entered our village. Endless miles of narrow roadsplastered against vast fields of rice with men in straw-hats. Around and around in circles we went until we reached our destination.Seeing beyond soaring buildings and flashing lightsold countryside houses on narrow roads and tin-roof bungalowsplagued red-clay gridlocks.

My Bangladeshi Uncle had tea with the Queen.England. Europe. West.Memories that to me is filled with blazing hot days,dark surreptitious nights realities that I can only watch, not prevent. From American Airlines to Gulf Air,we stood on endless lines, they tagged our baggage checked our bodiesfor weapons. As the plane ascended slowly fromJFK Airport, the lights grew smaller and dimmer. I waved New York good-bye, and in return,it cried a deep storm, washing itself clean.